Mewling
by ToneeLabradeen
Summary: On the way back from a case, John and Sherlock come across a kitten. Fluffy Johnlock.


"We can't just leave the poor thing, Sherlock, it'll starve to death!" A mewl of what seemed to be agreement sounded from the bundle that John's jumper had become, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. They had found the kitten stranded by the roadside on the way back from a crime scene, mewling pitifully, its mother's dead body just a few feet away.

"I am not taking care of it," the brunette replied, starting towards 221B Baker Street, pointedly ignoring the fact that John's eyes lit up with the grin that crossed the doctor's face. The little orange kitten with its different-colored eyes mewled again, and Sherlock ignored that, as well, just as he ignored John's constant fawning over the tiny thing the entire way to the flat.

A few hours later, the apartment was all but ransacked. All chairs not belonging to Sherlock were overturned, the cushions were pulled out from the sofa, cabinets and drawers were open with their contents strewn about the floor, and John stood in the middle of the living room, scratching his head, a slightly panicked look on his face.

"Sherlock, have you seen Hamlet?" It was the third time he'd asked the question since the kitten had disappeared, and John didn't expect an answer. He hadn't gotten one the first two times, after all, so why should this time be—

"He is climbing my leg." John nearly jumped out of his skin at the comment, and looked down Sherlock's leg to see the tiny ball of fluff climbing up towards the lap of the world's only consulting detective. The doctor nearly laughed aloud, but as he looked at Sherlock's face, he quickly suppressed the urge. "Get it off."

"Right," John replied, going over and carefully prying the kitten's claws from the brunette's leg. He was met with seriously unhappy mewling, and when he finally got the kitten off Sherlock's leg, he winced at the feeling of tiny claws sinking into his arm. Still, he couldn't help but forgive the tiny thing, and he kept forgiving the little orange kitten, day after day.

"Sherlock, have you—"

"Yes, John, I have," the detective interrupted, knowing how the question would end. "If you would care to notice the details?" John sighed and stood, listening and looking around the apartment. He was about to say that there was nothing out of the ordinary when he realized that Sherlock wasn't typing, though he was sitting with his laptop, staring at it. "It is on my laptop, John. Remove it." With a barely-suppressed roll of his eyes, John went over and picked the little orange kitten up off of Sherlock's laptop, and immediately, the detective began typing again. John would have been annoyed with the little thing, but the kitten was just too cute.

The day after the laptop incident, Sherlock was sitting on the couch, wearing nothing but a sheet, thinking over some conundrum or other, while John sat at the table, looking over comments on his blog. They had been like that for at least two hours, and were poised to be that way for several more, when Sherlock let out the sigh that indicated that something was breaking his concentration. John had an idea as to what it was, but he wanted to be sure.

"What is it this time, Sherlock?" he asked, already getting up from his seat.

"It is licking my foot," Sherlock replied, still looking as though he were fully consumed in his thoughts. With a frustrated sigh, John went over to the couch and picked the kitten up from the floor, bring the fluffy orange puffball to his bedroom and locking it inside for the time being. He let it out later that day. That night, as John tried to sleep, there was a knock at his door, and then someone stepped into the room without bothering to wait for an answer.

"What is it, Sherlock?" John mumbled, knowing that it was his flatmate, and knowing that the issue was likely a ball of orange fur.

"Did you let it into my room, John? It is on my pillow," Sherlock said, obviously annoyed. John groaned into his pillow, refusing to move for a moment before he finally rolled out of bed and moved to follow Sherlock back downstairs to remove the adorable menace from the detective's pillow. And of course, every time the kitten made some other transgression, John forgave him. As the days went on, however, John became increasingly frustrated with Sherlock.

"John." Sherlock didn't sound happy, and that made John rush to the living room, apprehensive of what the detective would blame on Hamlet this time. "It has clawed my chair and ruined one of my experiments." This was only the latest in Sherlock's string if complaints and accusations, and John was fed up with it. He had thought the kitten might inspire Sherlock to be more affectionate, might inspire him to repeat what he had said a month earlier, late one night, as they had stayed up pondering a case.

_John was pacing, thinking over what Sherlock had said. The detective probably had everything riddled out already, but had asked John to think it over as well, for reasons unknown, and the doctor was not going to give up on this task. He wanted to prove to his flatmate that he was more than just a slow-minded veteran, that he was worthy of attention. He was so wrapped up in trying to figure out what all the information meant that he missed whatever Sherlock had said the first time he said it, and had to pause._

"_What was that?" he asked, still wrapped up in the information, trying to pay attention to what was going on in the flat, rather than what had happened at the crime scene._

"_I said, John, that I believe I love you," Sherlock replied patiently, a rarity for the genius. John stared, dumbfounded, until Sherlock continued. "I seem to be displaying the classic symptoms of love – elevated heard rate, apparent fixation on the object of love, and I'm sure that if you checked my pupils, they would be dilated." John swore that he would have to pick his jaw up from the floor, and simply stared, flabbergasted, as Sherlock stood, crossed the living room in a few short strides, and traced his fingers along John's jaw, gently lifting the doctor's head. "And I believe that the normal course of action upon such an admission would be to kiss." John swallowed hard, regaining some form of his senses._

"_Y-yes, that…that's right," he confirmed. He still wasn't completely comprehending what had just happened, but he didn't protest when Sherlock leaned down and touched their lips together with a curious, questioning, inquisitive kind of pressure, as if it weren't a romantic gesture, but rather one of the detective's experiments._

_About a week after that, they had been sitting across from each other, both working on their laptops (or pretending to, in John's case), when John suddenly looked up, determined._

"_Sherlock," the doctor said, loud enough that the detective would surely hear. Sherlock merely grunted in response. "Sherlock, I need you to actually listen to me this time." At this, Sherlock looked up from whatever he was absorbed in, curious as to what John had to say that required his full attention. "I love you, too, Sherlock." The brunette simply smiled to himself and went back to whatever it was that he was working on. John hadn't expected anything more or anything less, but he had felt the need to say it._

After that, John had become slightly obsessed with getting Sherlock to repeat his admission, and now that the kitten had obviously failed, John was frustrated. He scooped Hamlet up off the ground and started to get his coat. It was cold out, much colder than when they had found the little kitten.

"Fine. You'd obviously prefer it if Hamlet were gone," John said, fumbling his coat on around the kitten in his arms. "I'll just bring him to the pound and we'll be done with him for good. I'll see you later, Sherlock." With that, John left, bringing the little kitten to the pound, hoping desperately that someone would adopt him before his time at the pound ran out. When he got back to the flat, Sherlock was nowhere to be found, which was perfectly fine by John, who went up to his bedroom to take a nap. He was exhausted emotionally, and figured a nap couldn't hurt. He was awoken rather soon after he'd fallen asleep by a soft knock on his door.

"John, may I come in?" The doctor bolted upright in his bed. Sherlock was asking permission to come in. Slowly, John got up and went to the door, opening it cautiously, as if any sudden movements would scare the detective away. Sherlock's arms were awkwardly crossed over his chest, as if he were cradling something, and before John could say a word, he heard a mewl escape from between his flatmate's arms, and a fluffy orange tail poked out beneath them.


End file.
